This Earl Is on Fire (21 page)

“A
re you not happy with your first sight of Arborcrest, Miss Pimm?” Liam asked with a peculiar smile as he rubbed a flannel over his damp hair.

No. Adeline was furious.

For more than three hours, she'd been sequestered inside the carriage, and now he expected her to be glad?

Besides, she barely had a glimpse of the estate with the way that she'd been covered with a greatcoat, rushed inside and up the stairs. She'd caught a blur of pale stone and a wide oaken door and then dozens of faces, all eagerly saying, “Welcome home, my lord. Welcome to Arborcrest, my lady.”

Now, she was standing in a vast,
and yes, elegant and splendid
, rose-colored bedchamber. Beyond the window lay an expansive grove of white-blossomed pear trees, all lined up in rows, extending to the rolling hills that crested the horizon. But the fact that she liked what she had seen of Arborcrest so far did not matter in the least.

She set her hands on her hips and glared at Liam. “How dare you tell your man at the door that I am your countess! You never even asked me to marry you. Regardless, I absolutely
will not
.”

Liam tossed the cloth to the upholstered bench at the foot of a large bed with four ornately carved posts. He seemed unaffected by her outburst and began stripping out of his wet clothes. “You will marry me. By now most of London will know that we left town without a chaperone.”

“I don't care about that,” she said, trying not to watch him tug his wet cravat free, revealing his corded throat. Next, he shrugged out of his waistcoat, offering a view of black hair and the firm muscles of his chest and shoulders beneath the transparent linen of his shirt sleeves. She tried not to remember how it felt to have her hands on him or to feel him pressed against her. She swallowed. “You tucked me away in the carriage. Then you carried me inside, not even allowing me to walk on my own.”

He pulled his shirtsleeves over his head and padded to her, wearing only his trousers. His hands skimmed over her arms, pulling her closer, inch by inch. “I put you in the carriage because you were shaking and it was beginning to rain. And I carried you into the house, not because I thought you incapable of doing so, but because I needed you in my arms.”

Oh
. Her breath came out all at once, gooseflesh and tingles dancing over her skin. She felt herself softening a bit until . . .

“I needed to know you were safe,” he said, his statement sounding far too much like something her parents would have said.

She shrugged away from him, only to have him follow.

“How could I not be safe after having been imprisoned in a carriage the whole journey?” she asked, ignoring the quick tug of her heart. “I will not be coddled.”

“Very well. Next time we drive in the rain, I will put you in the seat beside me so that we are both”—he flashed her a wicked grin—“wet through.”

How dare he make her blush at a time like this! Not only that, but did he have to touch her this way, brushing his fingers up and down her arms, eliciting sensations that made her want to step into his embrace?

Against her will, her resolve began to weaken. She lifted a hand to his forehead, his skin smooth and emitting a pleasant, temperate warmth. “You were the one foolish enough to ride the entire journey in the rain. It is dangerous to put your health at risk.”

She almost lost him once today, and she didn't want to think about him falling ill too. It was taking all the strength she had not to fall apart.

“Do you think I require bed rest?” Even though he teased, his expression was both heated and tender. He took her hands and settled them against his chest, over his heart.

She nearly gave in, ready to offer him whatever he wanted and gladly. But when he started to undress her, she stepped back. Or tried to. He didn't let her go too far.

“I can undress myself,” she assured him. Since she did not have a change of clothes, however, she saw little reason to remove her dress. Although, this one was covered with bits of straw and quite dusty. It also reminded her of the horror of being trapped in the crate, of watching as Liam was almost shot, and then seeing the cart drive over the edge of the bridge . . .

She shivered.

“I have no doubt of it. However, your hands are trembling.” He pressed a warm kiss to each of her fingertips as if to prove his point. “And you need the warmth of a bath. There is a large copper tub waiting in the dressing room that joins the master suites. I believe the servants have finished filling it.”

Suddenly, a bath sounded like the perfect idea. She nodded, allowing him to help her with the tiny fastenings of the bib front dress, knowing her hands were shaking too much to do it herself.

“Good.” He stepped closer, his fingers deftly working the enclosure. Heat emanated from his body, warming her. He leaned in to whisper, causing those tingles to return. “Besides, as you might have guessed, this is what husbands enjoy doing the most, and wives, I imagine. They undress each other.”

“Likely they do,” she agreed, her heart squeezing with regret. “But I am not going to be your wife.”

He kissed her throat, nipping down to her collarbone as he slid her dress from her shoulders, then freeing her from her corset. “It is too late for that.”

“Are you forgetting that you don't want to marry me either? Or how you believe I had a grand scheme all along to trap you?”

He lifted his head. “How could you know that?”

She fought the tears that stung her eyes. “The instant Mother told me that you left to see your solicitor, I knew. I remember what you said about London weddings—contracts, dowries, and waiting for the banns to be read.”

His clover-green gaze pinned her. “Your father told me that you knew from the first moment that we would marry. Do you deny it?”

She shook her head. “No. You see, my family believes in love at first sight. According to the stories, my ancestors have claimed to have known the moment they'd met their future spouse. I come from a long line of romantics who married for love. It is nothing more than that—no scheming involved.”

“And it happened to you.” He held her gaze, and he never stepped away from her.

Again, Adeline shook her head. “I did not fall in love with you at first sight. That took time.” She decided not to tell him about the strong reaction or how she felt tethered to him instantly. It would only cause problems when she refused to marry him.

“But you do love me.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

“Yes. I love you,” she began. “But you know my reasons for not wanting to marry. I will not be a burden to anyone or a source of pity.”

He grasped her shoulders. “Have I ever once made you feel pitied, incapable?”

When she opened her mouth to reply instantly, he silenced her with a finger against her lips.

“I will answer that for you,” he said. “From the beginning, I have thought you everything that is brave, capable, and perfect.”

She remembered back to the night she'd cut her hair and how she thought she'd heard him say something similar, but at the time it was too easy to convince herself that it was merely hopeful yearning. Knowing that he felt this way filled her with wonder and complete elation.

But still, it was difficult to obliterate all of her doubts. After all, he had never professed any deeper feelings for her. Could they build a life on admiration?

Likely not. “But who is to say that would not change?”

“And this is why you are willing to let me live for the next thirty years before I found a young bride, hmm?” His jaw clenched, his gaze hard, but his hands were tender upon her flesh, drawing her into his embrace. “Oh, yes, I read your letter. Perhaps you are right, after all. I might fare better with a bride who is more determined than with one who will let her fear be the barrier between us.”

“You have no idea how much that letter cost me.” Her hands settled over his chest once more to push him away. Yet the rhythm of his heart began thrumming through her own body. She closed her eyes against the power he held over her, against wanting to wrap her arms around him and hold on to him forever. Then she met his gaze. “I was the brave one, willing to let you have your dream, even knowing that you were mine.”

“Then make me yours, darling.” A flame ignited in his eyes at her bold declaration. He pulled her to him, lifting her as he made his way toward the bed. “If you like, you can display your capabilities by being the one on top.”

They fell together through the bed curtains, tumbling onto a satin coverlet. He turned her so that she was straddling him, her chemise rising up, the hard evidence of his arousal between them.

She was out of breath once more and staring down at his sinful smirk. “This is not a jest, Liam. My heart is trembling, and I don't know if it's out of fear or longing. All I know is that I want it to stop.”

“It won't stop.” He took her hands and threaded them with his. “Perhaps it is a mixture of fear
and
longing. This feeling is inside of me too. It is far worse when we are apart. Every single moment I've spent away from you has been pure torture. My only reprieve from agony is when you are near. Then my head clears, my heart beats strong in my chest, and I am suddenly filled with certainty.”

Did that mean he felt their connection too? Just as strongly as she?

The answer was there in the happiness that flooded her, pure and magnificent.

“Adeline, you cannot make me wait thirty years.”

Make
him
wait?
“If you'll recall, the thirty years was always your—”

He stopped her by pulling her down for a kiss. “I'll have to keep you here for all that time. I refuse to live without you for even a single day. I love you far too much.”

She grinned against his lips, letting his words fill her. “Unmarried for thirty years . . . What will our children think?”

He turned, shifting so that she was beneath him now. “Then it is fortunate that Vale will be here tomorrow with a special license for us.”

No banns, no contracts, no negotiations . . . “No London wedding?”

“I've long held the belief that marriage is
a union between two souls who will be united forever
,” he said, quoting her own speech to him.

She laughed softly, adoringly. “Oh, you have, have you?”

“Always. Since the moment we met.” As he brushed the hair from her face, there was no humor or wickedness in his gaze, just complete sincerity. “So when are you going to say
yes
?”

“As soon as you kiss me.”

And so he kissed her.

T
he Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence

Rumors abound, dear readers, over the fate of our
Original
who has yet to be named!

The committee surely has candidates aplenty. Though we must wonder if all of our favorites have not suddenly married, making them ineligible. A curious thought, is it not?

Which brings our attention to the esteemed Earl of W— and his recent symposium at the Royal Society. This astounding transformation has us all atwitter and looking to his fair bride.

In the style of the lovely Countess of W—, we have seen a rise in debutantes flaunting silk-covered half boots from their phaeton perches. Even our goddess, Lady G—, was spotted in the park, wearing a bold pair in turquoise blue. Sources state that they certainly earned the Marquess of Th—'s admiration.

Every sighting brings a new report, whetting our collective appetites over these rivals. Yet, until the
Original
is named, we shall have to wait . . .

“D
o you think Thayne is terribly upset that you weren't named?” Adeline asked from across the coverlet, her legs folded beneath her and her hair mussed from a rather thorough morning.

Liam grinned, licking a drop of honey off the pad of his thumb and watching his bride's eyes follow, her cheeks flushing with color. Likely, she would never see honey without blushing again—he'd made sure of it. “Not at all. In fact, he lives for the challenge of it, not the result. I'm certain he will figure out how to tempt Juliet into a new wager. One that she won't be able to resist.”

“Hmm . . . likely so.” Adeline slathered another piece of dark, grainy bread with soft cheese—a main staple of their frequent coverlet picnics.

They'd been married a week now. The ever-competent Mr. Ipley had seen to all the arrangements in a mere day—a wedding in the chapel, filled with friends and family fresh from London. It almost seemed too convenient to Liam that such a feat were possible. But then Ipley confessed to having received a letter from Aunt Edith weeks ago.

Apparently, she had known from the beginning that Liam and Adeline would marry in short order. He still wondered what gave him away. Nevertheless, their wedding party, complete with houseguests, lasted until Liam and Adeline returned to London for his lecture.

Now they were back at Arborcrest again. The Pimms were staying in the east wing for a time, Serge taking great pains to set up a bee colony to
marry
Boswickshire honey with Arborcrest's pear orchard. And Liam was more content than he could imagine.

“It was kind of the
Standard
's editor not to mention any part of your uncle's scandal,” Adeline said, coming closer to lay her head on his shoulder.

He tucked her beside him as they shared bites of bread. “I believe they are in shock—as we all are—even more so now that he has fled the country.”

“Poor Gemma—abandoned by her unscrupulous father and then left to endure the scandal.”

He kissed her head, loving her pure heart. “Aunt Edith says she's up to the task of separating the
ton
's opinion of Albert from Gemma. But I do not envy my cousin at all. She will be forced to endure the
dullest
affairs of the entire Season.”

“Then perhaps we should return, to help her have a London adventure.”

Liam stiffened, pulling Adeline closer. “Do you want to return to London?”

Finishing the last bite of bread, she tapped her fingertip against her lip as if in contemplation. Then, tilting her head, she pressed a kiss over his heart. “I think I would prefer . . . an Arborcrest adventure.” She kissed him again, higher this time. “A waltz in the orchard.” Another kiss. “A race in your carriage toward that copse of trees at the bottom of the hill . . . The one you showed me the other day, where the grass is lush and soft beneath us . . .”

By the time her kisses reached his mouth, she was straddling him. And Liam completely agreed that an Arborcrest adventure was exactly what he needed too, for the next thirty years, and more.

T
he scene at Hanover Square was a complete disaster. Traffic converged into one colossal mash-up of closed carriages, open barouches, horse carts, and every type of conveyance one could image.

And here they sat. Red-faced coachmen were shouting, horses whinnying, the cart owners cursing, and all of their wrath seemed to be aimed at one young gentleman in a single-horse gig. The man at the center of it all appeared dumbstruck, his gaze fixed toward the corner townhouse.

From atop his horse, Max followed the young man's gaze and was suddenly no longer surprised. For standing on the pavement was none other than Juliet.

The woman frequently left wreckage in her wake.

After steering clear of it, he dismounted and tied off his horse on a post before walking in her direction. “My, my, Lady Granworth, you do cause quite the spectacle.”

Her gold-trimmed hat tilted upward as she coolly watched his approach. “Do not think to blame me. All I did was direct Mr. Wick to the portmanteau beneath the driver's perch and then this . . .” She tsked and gestured with a wave, raising a lace-gloved hand up from where it rested elegantly on the tip of her closed parasol.

Max paid no heed to the maelstrom on the street. Instead, he focused on the true culprit, his gaze skimming over her and down the length of her fitted blue walking costume. He could hardly blame the lad in the gig. She was a veritable siren. At one time, even Max had lost his bearings over her.

But that was years ago. He was a different man now.

With a shake of his head, he glanced toward the small set of stairs leading to the townhouse as Mr. Wick, portmanteau in hand, disappeared through the door.

Max frowned. “Shouldn't you be directing your carriage to be filled with luggage instead emptied of it?”

“For what reason?” Her pale golden brows arched, all innocence. Yet the glint of contention in those vivid blue eyes told him that she knew exactly why.

“To return to your home in Bath, of course. After all, you did not win our wager.”

“Nor did I lose. Until there is a formal announcement in the
Standard
, I may still reclaim my home.” Lifting her closed parasol, she rested it against her shoulder as if it were a musket and then turned toward the townhouse.

He glared at her retreating figure, his back teeth grinding together. “You have no hope of winning.”

“Dear Max”—she glanced over her shoulder, a small smile curving her lips—“our true battle has only begun, and I am not about to surrender.”

Not quite
The End
.